Couch Potato

A Story by Kelley Quinn

A Short Story

Oh my, what a horrible situation I have gotten myself into. Oh no. I don’t like this at all. My bum is itchy, burning and unsteady. My cheeks are not equally presenting equilibrium, that’s for sure. I seem to be leaning like the Tower of Pisa. I don’t like this at all. I might as well be lying down at the current angle I am shifted towards right now. Certainly not a 90 degree angle, as I would prefer. That would be much too proper and acceptable. Instead I find myself at the cumbersome angle of 63 degrees. Approximately, of course. Do not think that I am sitting here in such an uncomfortable setting with a protractor, measuring my discomfort in numbers. Oh no, certainly not. I am instead grumbling in detest, mumbling incoherent words to the couch cushions in which I have somehow found myself on.

Please do not tell me that the shifting I feel is underneath me. Please, if there is a God, do not let there be some demonic sort of animal be shifting beneath this already mangled couch cushion. Stop it, demon! Stop it now! There is a reason I do not go on roller coasters or into stimulation seats: I do not enjoy the unexpected movement and shaking of my extra flub, especially on such a delicate area as my buttocks. Now the shaking has increased to my flappy arms, making me the most displeasing creature, sitting at a 63 degree angle on this rusty, bedraggled couch with the most scowlish scowl on my face. This is not fun. I do not like this one bit. Oh? There is squeaking. The animal must be coming up, finally! Now maybe the discomfort will leave and I can finally sit at a 90 degree angle in which I so desperately wish to achieve. Oh there must be some holy form watching over me. Thank you sir!

Alas, there is no animal. I am still lopsided. There is still an unknown source for the squeaking. My bum still itches because these cushions are made of some sort of scratchy, dead man’s hair of some sort. Either that or a coconut’s skin. My legs are numb and my patience has seeped somewhere far away into the crevices of the cushions. I have been staring at the floor for quite some time, tracing the patterns of the floor to distract myself from the burning sensation of hatred that is flooding through my veins. When I finally decide to lift my head and turn to the left I realize what my problem is: there is a small child jumping high and higher on the opposite cushion, staring me down with the biggest grin on her face, watching my shake and slump to the left in discomfort. My mouth gapes open and at first I’m angry but then I realize my resolution: I lift my benumbed legs and stand.

What wonderful elevation, spectacular 90 degree angles and itchiness begone! I am tall and magnificent in a world with no uncomfortable couches! I am alive and comfortable as all my dreams have wished for. I look at the young girl and grin, letting her know just how comfortable I truly am, in a world of uncomfortable couches. I have conquered all.